Perfect,

Thanks for the good read.

Eric 

> On Apr 17, 2020, at 7:26 PM, Stuart MacMillan <stuartmacm@GMAIL.COM> wrote:
> 
> Paywall and link issues have made this impossible to read on-line so here is
> the text (no photos). The Times should give you three free articles so try
> going to their website:  www.seattletimes.com <http://www.seattletimes.com>
> for the full version.
> 
> 
> 
> When the coronavirus pandemic got serious, I was with my brother in his van
> in Death Valley. Here's what I learned.
> 
> April 17, 2020 at 6:00 am
> 
> The author was living out of a van in Death Valley National Park with his
> brother Ethan (pictured) as the novel coronavirus spread in the United
> States.
> 
> By Connor Goodwin
> 
> Special to The Seattle Times
> 
> On Friday the 13th of March, it rained in Death Valley, California, one of
> the driest places on Earth.
> 
> 
> 
> "If this isn't an omen, I don't know what is," I said to my brother, quickly
> hammering out a tweet only to realize we had no cell service. After thumbing
> through news updates on COVID-19 - then a new, nervous twitch - I was
> relieved to be siloed from the sickening world, if only for a day or two,
> unaware of what was to come.
> 
> 
> 
> Located east of the Sierra Nevada, Death Valley is a vast wasteland of
> mottled rubble surrounded by modest mountains patterned like seabeds. Once a
> site for mining borax, a material used in taxidermy and household cleaners,
> Death Valley was repurposed for tourism in the 1930s.
> 
> 
> 
> Despite its macabre name, Death Valley felt like one of the safest places to
> be at the moment, what feels like forever ago. Judging by the full parking
> lots and lines at the visitor center, others thought so as well. Around the
> nation, Americans were just beginning to feel the social, economic and
> psychological toll of COVID-19 and, in response, many sought refuge in
> nature while they could.
> 
> 
> 
> For much of the winter, my brother had been roaming the Southwest and living
> out of his van before starting a new job as a wildland firefighter in Estes
> Park, Colorado. When he suggested I fly to Las Vegas for a week of climbing
> and biking in surrounding areas like Red Rock Canyon, Zion National Park and
> Death Valley National Park, my only hesitation at the time was cost.
> "Flights are cheap and we'd camp and cook," he assured me.
> 
> 
> 
> Without knowing it, I volunteered for self-lockdown with my brother in his
> van for a week.
> 
> 
> 
> But reader, let me tell you, in that seemingly distant past,
> self-quarantining in a van was luxurious. We had freedom of movement,
> freedom from crowds and, for a while, freedom from fear. Fear of the
> invisible enemy.
> 
> 
> 
> When I arrived in Las Vegas, coronavirus was all I could talk about. After
> swimming through a swamp of contagion - the subway, Newark Airport and Las
> Vegas, that Carnival cruise ship of a city - I was decidedly on edge. My
> brother listened patiently. "I almost didn't come," I said, breathing a
> little easier on our way out of the city, away from people. "Honestly," he
> said, "I haven't thought about COVID-19 all that much."
> 
> 
> 
> I came to understand why. Far from crowds and news updates, we bouldered in
> Red Rocks Canyon, biked through Echo Canyon in Death Valley, hiked outside
> of St. George, Utah, and rewarded ourselves at exquisite bakeries, then, of
> course, still operational. In the evenings, my brother cooked: lemon
> risotto, cauliflower and chickpea curry, root vegetable medleys. We rose at
> first light, assessed the weather and decided what to do and where to go
> over coffee. The pleasure of it all was compounded by the thought of being
> cooped up in my New York apartment with a singular view.
> 
> 
> 
> The view from my passenger-seat window was ever changing. Layers of vibrant
> red rock pancaked in Utah. Goofy Joshua trees, as if drawn by Dr. Seuss, in
> the low deserts of California. Canyons everywhere polished by wind and bent
> by water.
> 
> 
> 
> The author and his brother were ahead of the curve on social distancing - as
> the coronavirus pandemic spread to the U.S., the siblings were unwittingly
> in the perfect place for escaping people: a van in the middle of Death
> Valley.   (Ethan Goodwin / Special to The Seattle Times)
> 
> The author and his brother were ahead of the curve on social distancing - as
> the coronavirus pandemic spread to the U.S., the siblings were unwittingly
> in the perfect place for escaping people:... (Ethan Goodwin / Special to The
> Seattle Times) More
> 
> I took note of other vehicles built for a nomadic lifestyle, a habit among
> vandwellers. Death Valley, in particular, had some war-ready rigs: mammoth
> tires with aggressive tread, jerrycans with extra fuel fastened to the side,
> a strip of floodlights and, the granddaddy of them all: the EarthRoamer
> expedition vehicle.
> 
> 
> 
> Between these rigs outfitted for societal collapse, the indifferent
> stonescape of Death Valley, and the exponentially escalating global
> pandemic, it was easy to imagine we were living a "Mad Max" prequel. Back in
> New York, I wondered how many writers were working on a script starring a
> Seamless bike delivery guy - like HBO's "High Maintenance," but with
> mozzarella sticks.
> 
> 
> 
> Cut off from the news, Hollywood hijacked my imagination. An abundance of
> scripted doomsday scenarios colored in sketches of an uncertain future. At
> once impersonal and familiar, they provided some framework to intuit the
> real-life consequences of an ever-escalating global pandemic. For me, and I
> suspect many others, movies are the most accessible reference point for the
> current global pandemic. Perhaps this outlook indulged in fantastical
> thinking too much, but in an age of spectacle, it felt natural.
> 
> 
> 
> Reality, however, does not kneel to apocalyptic fantasy. Life on the road
> had its own perils and presented a different hierarchy of concerns than the
> city. Here, social distancing was not an issue. But access to certain
> amenities (showers, Wi-Fi) and resources (fuel, food, water) demanded we
> venture into town.
> 
> 
> 
> Expeditions into the grocery store under the new normal required a safety
> check, just like climbing. Gloves? Check. Hand sanitizer? Check.
> Disinfectant wipes? Check. We stocked up as many provisions as we could - a
> week at most.
> 
> 
> 
> A series of rainy days drove us to stay in a St. George hotel on March 17. I
> was uneasy sleeping in a shared, transient space, but the immediate comforts
> of a spacious bed, hot shower and mindless TV beckoned sweet as any Siren.
> 
> 
> 
> We watched CNN and I kept checking updates on the outbreak in New York. The
> day I left, March 11, there were 212 confirmed cases in New York state, and
> only 52 in New York City. A week later, there were 814 confirmed cases in
> the city, Mayor Bill de Blasio was weighing a "shelter in place" order and
> Gov. Andrew Cuomo had announced a hospital ship was en route to relieve New
> York's overburdened health care system. I wasn't the only one taken by
> surprise. Since then, New York City has become the American epicenter for
> the pandemic and New York has more than 210,000 cases statewide (and
> counting).
> 
> 
> 
> Then, it was so early in the health crisis that the greatest dangers were
> "unknown unknowns," to borrow Donald Rumsfeld's phrase. Health officials
> gently prodded an unwilling public (admittedly, myself included) toward
> containment measures while news reports described impending shortages of
> medical supplies and inadequate testing.
> 
> 
> 
> It was safe to assume the number of confirmed cases and deaths were
> low-balled. Researchers at Columbia University corroborated this suspicion
> when they estimated that at the time, there were 11 undetected cases of
> COVID-19 for every confirmed case.
> 
> 
> 
> A week removed from the problem seeming invisible, distant, it became clear
> the U.S. was well past the stages of containment. The pandemic was going to
> get a lot worse before it got better, especially in New York City. My
> brother was convinced everyone in the U.S. would become infected at some
> point.
> 
> 
> 
> A week of van life had already dramatically shifted my daily routine, and
> the pandemic fully disrupted national life as we know it. My baseline for
> normalcy dug itself a grave, 6 feet deep, honoring social distance.
> 
> 
> 
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> When the coronavirus pandemic got serious, I was with my brother in his van
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> 
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> 
> After being inundated by coronavirus coverage, I was spooked and eager to
> get out of town. But, similar to trends in Washington state, a growing
> backlash from locals at popular outdoor destinations, such as Moab, Utah,
> and Bishop, California, discouraged outside visitors. Climbing and biking
> influencers echoed this message on social media and encouraged folks to stay
> local with their outdoor activity. National parks sent mixed messages by
> closing visitor centers, but leaving parks open and free.
> 
> 
> 
> The author goes about his morning routine with the desert and mountains of
> Death Valley mingling in the background. (Ethan Goodwin / Special to The
> Seattle Times)
> 
> The author, right, and his brother Ethan Goodwin pose in front of the van
> they lived in around the outbreak of the coronavirus pandemic.  (Ethan
> Goodwin / Special to The Seattle Times)
> 
> 1 of 2 | The author goes about his morning routine with the desert and
> mountains of Death Valley mingling in the background. (Ethan Goodwin /
> Special to The Seattle Times)
> 
> These measures were sensible, but they put nomadic vandwellers in a new kind
> of limbo. Without a permanent place of residence, what was considered local?
> How could we reduce our COVID-19 footprint living on the road?
> 
> 
> 
> On our last night, we parked at the Bearclaw Poppy Navajo Trailhead, a
> popular destination for off-road trails just outside St. George. My brother
> and I went for a run followed by push-ups and a core workout. He was
> training for a physical exam expected of all wildland firefighters. Nearby,
> the engines of dirt bikes and dune buggies buzzsawed over rollers and rock
> gardens. The sky popped as folks out of view unloaded guns in target
> practice. It felt like we were on training grounds for an improvised
> militia.
> 
> 
> 
> Since 9/11, the threat of catastrophe has always been there and not there.
> Disasters were unexpected, but never a surprise. Climate change, in
> particular, tested our capacity for doom. We were prepared to watch the
> world slowly burn. We were not ready for the world to sicken overnight.
> 
> 
> 
> Connor Goodwin: connorg03@gmail.com;